


Deleted Scenes

by lilsmartass



Series: First Impressions: DVD Extras [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Arc Reactor Failure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, bullying aftermath, first impressions universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Deleted scenes, in no particular order, from the First Impressions and Second Chances universe<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve POV: From Cuts and Bruises between chapters 8 and 9. Begins where part 9 ends.

**Author's Note:**

> .  
>  Rating: PG-13
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.
> 
> Warning/Spoilers: ANGST, emotional Tony hurt, feels, massive amounts of guilty!Steve, misconceptions, some swearing, penguins – blame Cyberbutterfly, when I wrote it, it was a joke, she made me go through with it.
> 
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, gen, pre-slash (no, I’m still not announcing the pairing), beginning of friendship, distrust between the Avengers.  
> Beta: Melpemone  
> A/N: There has been an incredible (and flattering) outpouring of response for this series. In the past, I have always tried to respond to every single review, but the volume of comments for this is such that I really don’t have time any more. I will try to respond to as many as possible, and please know that every single comment is read and appreciated. Thank you so much. You may have also noticed there’s a meta community posted under ‘misconceptions’ which can be found at either my works page or at cauldronofdoom’s, feel free to comment or discuss there.
> 
> The chapter title of each chapter will tell you who the POV.

Kneeling beside Tony’s non-breathing body, Steve feels a sick thick dread in his throat. He barely hears Clint as he speaks.

“CPR,” Clint rasps. “Can we…will that hurt the..?”

Natasha is white faced, but she’s standing, and it’s her who turns at the sound of an overloud motorbike rev and an unsurprisingly green Bruce Banner vaults off the bike, fingers white around a circular something in his hands. “What did you _do_ to him?” he demands gutturally.

“Training accident,” Steve explains shortly. “Help him, Doctor.” Steve takes Clint’s arm above the elbow and tows him backwards, intercepting the SHIELD agent running towards them with his other hand.

“What-?” Clint starts.

“Tony didn’t want us near when…it had to come out.” Steve explains, including the agent in the general statement, and preventing either of them moving closer.

“That’s _bullshit_ ,” Clint spits. “We’re his team. We should be there. We could help.”

“Clint,” Steve tries to soothe.

“Don’t _Clint_ me. We should be-”

“I think Tony’s well within his rights to make sure that we don’t know how to _unplug his heart from his chest_ ,don’t you?” The words are harsher than Steve means them to be, worry and guilt churning together.

From the way Clint whitens, it’s clear he knows that Tony is overly defensive of the reactor around the pair of them too. Still, his jaw sets stubbornly. “We should be able to help him.”

Steve shrugs, not knowing what else to say.

“I need to get a report on the team’s condition,” the agent interjects, trying to tug his arm out of Steve’s hand.

“You can have my report now, or you can wait for Agent Romanov and Doctor Banner to finish, but you’re not taking a step closer to Tony until they are done.”

“I…”

“Why don’t you make sure we’ve got an ambulance ready for evac,” Clint cuts in. The agent gapes at him. “ _Now_ ,” Clint adds dangerously, nodding for Steve to let go. The agent scurries off obediently, and Clint turns back to Steve. “That’s how you’ve got to deal with junior agents. You can’t give them options because then they think there’s a wrong answer, and are so terrified of picking it that you never get anything done.”

Steve resists the urge to look over his shoulder at the huddle around Tony and cracks a small smile. “Clint,” he starts, because they have to address this.

Clint’s gaze fixes on the ground. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve though. He’s never…he wasn’t at the team exercises where we were discussing the weaknesses of this equipment. I just didn’t think. It’ll never happen again. I swear.”

Steve can hear the honesty in the words. He knows Clint would never deliberately put them in danger, but he can’t shake the memory of the feral look on Clint’s face as he put arrows into their imaginary enemies, attention on nothing but on bringing down the targets. “You need to be more aware of your team,” he says gently.

“I _know_.” Clint takes a step back. “I know, Cap. I’ll do better. I promise.”

Steve opens his mouth to say more, to point out that these kinds of mistakes cost lives, but at that moment there’s a commotion behind them. Steve can hear Tony’s voice and he turns away instantly, anxious to check him over.

He doesn’t think about it again, until it comes to writing up his report that night, and by then it’s too late to bother Clint. Instead, he puts it in his report, detailing it in clinical sentences and taking care to stress that the accident had been unintentional, but avoidable with a little more forward planning. He’ll bring it up at the next team briefing, he decides, and caps his pen before heading back to the hospital to wait with the others.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Takes place during IMY/PWGI after Tony saves Natasha during the battle and Steve talks with Hill about Tony possibly being on the Avengers, but before Natasha leaves for her mission. Remix if Ice Breaker for the First Impressions Universe.
> 
> First Impressions Universe version of this fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/799675

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine.   
> This is the IMY version of this: http://archiveofourown.org/works/799675. A couple of people suggested that this story was just mean, though it wasn’t how the original piece was intended, the comments seemed to suggest they were attributing the backstory between IMY’s Tony and Steve to that story. I never thought Ice Breaker was that vicious, but, you want it? You got it.  
> Warning/Spoilers: sexual innuendo, bullying, Steve’s POV.  
> Genre: angst  
> Word count: 2240

 

The room was silent. In a tiny part of himself he didn’t want to acknowledge, Steve half wished he hadn’t invited Stark. It would be significantly less awkward; none of them had anything to talk about with the engineer. But, after his conversation with the Assistant Director he had vowed to keep a closer eye on Stark, and he was a man of his word.

They were all crowded into Steve’s tiny sitting room, a more personal setting, Steve felt, than the lavish communal floor, but if Stark was going to be part of the team they needed to start getting used to each other. Steve had seated himself at the head of the room, in the recliner he’d dragged out from the studio. On the sofa to his right were Clint and Natasha, and, despite the fact he’d heard Natasha threatening quite categorically to gut him if he didn’t stop coddling her, Clint had still placed himself between Natasha and the door.

Stark was on Steve’s other side in the other chair. He was turning his glass absently in his hands, eyes unfocussed and mind clearly elsewhere. Steve didn’t really have it in him to be angry that even the ever verbose Stark had fallen quiet though, maybe he just didn’t have anything to say to them either.   

“So,” Steve said, cringing internally at his forced joviality. “We should play a game.”

Both Clint and Natasha fixed him with disbelieving expressions and Stark jerked up, dark gaze locking on Steve’s. His eyes roved across the room for a second, flicking over the door as though calculating the distance to it. And that? That did annoy Steve. It had only been half an hour, and Stark already wanted to _leave_? Was this what he would have done had they come to his suggested activities? Stayed for the fewest number of minutes he could then left them in some bar?

But Stark didn’t argue or complain, merely said steadily, familiar wry twist curling his mouth, “What did you have in mind, Captain? Truth or dare?”

Steve flicked a glance at the others, they gave him no indication of opinion one way or the other, faces professionally blank. And Stark…well, he was annoying, obnoxious…but…but there had been a reason Steve had wanted to speak to Fury about putting him on the Avengers, a reason that, though he had taken Hill’s words under advisement, he hadn’t disregarded the thought completely. Stark had been under no illusions that he was an Avenger, and he had been obviously hung over, yet he’d still come, and saved Natasha. He wasn’t _totally_ irredeemable.  

Clint interrupts his thoughts by saying sarcastically. “We’re going to do trust falls, Stark.”

Stark’s eyes flash with something Steve can’t identify and he looks away, wry curl falling into a sharp edged smile. “I don’t trust people to _hand_ me things, Barton. What makes you think I’m going to be swooning into your arms?”

Steve interrupts the burgeoning argument. “No, I have a great game. One we used to play in the commandoes. It was a variation of truth or dare, you pick a themed question and the go around the group, each telling your answer.”

Natasha speaks quickly, even as Clint opens his mouth. She’s looking at Stark as she asks, “What did you have in mind for tonight’s theme, Captain?”

Steve hadn’t expected such quick compliance, and he shoots Natasha a grateful smile even as he gropes for a question. Something he is familiar with, a repeat of a game he’s played before…”Here’s one, what about…the most ill-advised thing you’ve ever done believing you’d die in the morning?”

There’s an indrawn breath from someone and the tension in the room spikes sharply. “That’s…uh…a bit morbid, Steve,” Clint points out, holding back either laughter or screams. “That’s gallows humour on whole new levels. You’ll make hell of a SHIELD agent.”

Steve flushed, perceiving that he had, once again, flouted twenty-first century norms. “It’s not…it’s…we used to play it all the time!”

Tony takes his assessing gaze off of Clint. “You were in _World War Two_ Cap, normal social rules didn’t apply,” his tone is gentle, but there’s a bite. His sarcastic expression intensifies as he obviously can’t help himself from adding, “Normal people don’t talk about death over drinks.”

Steve splutters for a second, whitening, and fully intending to call the whole thing off, but Natasha pinches Clint’s arm hard enough to make him slap her hand away and shoots Stark a look that makes him twitch like he’s fighting an instinctive recoil. Even with a stomach wound hampering her, the Black Widow is terrifying. “Boys!” she says sharply, “That’s enough.” She waits a beat to ensure that she is being obeyed, and Steve has to fight the smile at the forcible reminder of Peggy. Satisfied, she relaxes back into her seat and looks at Steve. “That sounds fine, Captain. After all, immanent death is something we’ve all got in common.”

“Perhaps the only thing we have in common,” Steve agrees dryly. A slight frown tugging the corner of his mouth as, this time, Stark does flinch, hand flitting to his Arc reactor and tapping an uneasy beat upon it.

Natasha affects not to notice. “I’ll go first,” she announces grandly.

Clint turns his face from Stark to her, expression lightening for the first time.

Ever an entertaining speaker, Natasha told what was obviously a fairly tame story that still made Steve’s ears turn scarlet. When she finally finished Stark offers her a silent toast. “Whatever you want to do, with whoever you want to do it, Agent Romanov?”

She gave him an enigmatic smile, but before she can answer Clint interjected with his own tale.

Stark told a story Steve had already read in his file. His birthday party, and he’s as funny and articulate as ever, but it still makes Steve’s gut curdle that, something so dangerous, something that could have gone so very wrong, can be made light of in this way. Perhaps, the Assistant Director was right after all. Stark is as mercurial and capricious as the sea. He’s a valuable ally, indispensable on the field, but surely it would be folly to rely on him. There will always be a day when he doesn’t come, and will not care who his actions hurt.

He’s so wrapped in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice even when Stark stops speaking and it is Clint who brings him back to himself by saying, “So then, Steve, what’s the most ill-advised thing you ever did believing you’d die in the morning?”

 _I arranged a date_ flashed unbidden through his mind, and it feels like his skin is shrinking, pulling tight across his eyes and cheeks. “I…” he stutters for a second. “I can’t.”

Clint might have dropped it. They had all learned when and how to push in the days they had been cooped at SHIELD. Stark’s eyes narrow. “Uh…no. Fuck that. You made us play this game; you can’t not play just because it’s your turn!”

Ironically, the intolerance helps where sympathy would have sent him spinning into memories of a world now lost. Stark’s tone rallies his fighting spirit and he feels an angry flush paint his face red. Still, he refuses to give into, reminding himself of Tony’s heroism. That he is more than cruel sarcasm wrapped in disdain. “I really can’t, Stark. I’m not…I’m sorry. I’ll tell you anything else.”

Stark gives a wicked smirk. “That’s not fair, Cap. What is it you’re too ashamed to tell us? Did you eat the last slice of apple pie? Did you forget to kiss a baby? Did you deflower a maiden without proposing to her?”

“Stark!” Steve gasps, shocked. Anger coursing through him, pounding in his temples with every thud of his heart. Clint makes a motion to stand and Steve sees Natasha pull him back down. That’s fine. He’s got this. He casts his eyes away from Stark, deliberately radiating unease. “No! Of course not! Nothing like that. But I…You really don’t want to know.”

Stark is smart, too smart sometimes, but, like Howard, he never could resist not knowing something, and he was a gossipy as any girl. His smile became smooth and his voice silky as he pressed what he believed was his advantage. “Oh, I really do. And I think everyone else does too.”

No one else contradicted him. Their gazes were on Steve now and it was all he could do not to tip them a wink. Still, he held his silence, playing out just a little more line, like an angler with a prize bass on his hook.

Predictably, the continued reticence just made Stark worse. “Come on, Cap!” He continues, the mocking tone almost enough to break Steve’s control, “Or are you too afraid to tell us? Would you _really_ ask us to do something you’re too afraid to do yourself?”

It’s a low blow, and one that almost makes Steve drop his plan in favour of explaining to Stark that _this_ was what made him unsuitable. This inability to stop pushing, the seeming incomprehension of what it was acceptable to mock and what it was not, was _why_ Tony could not be trusted with Clint. Steve’s eyes harden and Stark drew back slightly on his chair, but didn’t look away. Indeed, as if to cover his motion, he widened his smirk. “The most ill-advised thing I ever did,” Steve says, voice as steady as he can make it. “I…uh…” he looks away again, keeping Stark in his periphery, “I _fondued_ with Howard.”

Natasha blinks, brow furrowing as she considers that, tries to slot it into the facts she knows. Clint makes a sound somewhere between a triumphant cry, a vehement negation and a choked giggle. Stark gives a sharp bark of laughter.

“That’s it? _That’s_ your big shameful secret? That you slunk off once for a cheese based meal with my dad? I can’t even…Why is that even a secret? Were you supposed to be saving the world? Did helpless kittens have to stay trapped in trees because you were slurping dairy products off a stick? Or is it a gluttony thing? That’s one of the seven deadly sins isn’t it? Did you eat too much?”

Steve has absolutely no idea what to say. Innuendo did actually exist in the 1940s, and he can tell both the others have picked up on his implication, but Tony Stark, playboy genius, hasn’t? That’s…he doesn’t sigh, just, but he does add yet another point against Stark to the ever growing pile in his head. Too busy listening to himself talk that he hasn’t taken in what’s actually been said.

Stark is in full swing and gleefully carries on. “Maybe it was chocolate fondue. I see you as a chocolate guy, Captain. And dad never did anything by halves; he’ll have taken you to the best place he could think of, probably in Switzerland. Were you enjoying yourself in a private chateau, slurping chocolate at dad’s expense while the war continued?”

Aside from Stark’s ramble, the room is silent, neither of the agents seeming to even be breathing. Steve simply continues to watch Stark, waiting for the proverbial penny to drop.

Stark’s eyes darken, a child ready to increase the pitch of his screams because his tantrum was being ignored. His voice sharpened, becoming more staccato, a mean curl creeping beneath the joking veneer as he tried to raise more than the silent stare Steve still had fixed on him.

“And you know dad was…the word is bisexual. You’d probably say queer. I bet he enjoyed watching you lick that chocolate right off your…”

Clint couldn’t restrain the high pitched, slightly hysterical giggle and Stark’s voice trailed off, eyes glazing over as he suddenly realised what Steve had meant by _fondued._ Steve still didn’t say a word, didn’t trust his voice, merely raised one mocking eyebrow. _You really thought I meant cheese?_

Stark gaped unattractively, jaw still working, seemingly by memory even though no sounds were coming out. Steve let his own mouth curl into a filthy smirk that would have done Bucky proud and Stark made a choking, hacking noise before stumbling from the room.

There was another beat of silence, and then Steve held out his hand to Clint. “You owe me five bucks.”

Clint blinks his surprise. “I…What?”

“You bet me I’d never be able to make Stark shut up.”

Clint’s mouth twitches at the edges. “You mean…”

Steve relaxes, giving his usual smile instead of the expression which had felt so unfamiliar on his face. “Best prank ever.”

“You mean-?”

Steve snorts through his nose. “Of course not. I didn’t think Stark would respect me in the morning.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Deleted scenes from the First Impressions universe. I consider these scenes to be things that actually happened in universe just, for whatever reason, they didn’t fit into the main series, usually because they ruined the flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Nothing explicit. Tony angst and unintentional bullying (a la the main series). JARVIS is very overprotective in a possibly threatening way.  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, gen, pre-friendship of the Tony & Natasha flavour.  
> Beta: Kerravon
> 
> A/N: The love and support for this series has been incredible so a big thanks to all of you. What allows me to devote so much time to writing fic for fun is actually making money though so, without further ado, I’d like to announce the opening of the Dragon Sanctuary found here: http://www.dragon-sanctuary.com/shop/ I’m one of the dragon historians and a good friend of mine personally hand makes all the models. A really unique addition to any fantasy collection! Please check it out and spread the word.

** Deleted Scene 3: Natasha’s Apology **

 

**Natasha’s apology: takes place after chapter 10 of C &B.**

**TONY’S POV**

The hand that catches the remote (that he dropped, with a wince and a gasp of pain), surprises him. Tony reels backward with a small startled noise, eyes wide and dark in his pale face. After a second, heart racing, beating uncomfortably against the metal of the Arc reactor, he recognises Natasha.

He presses a hand to his reactor, hard enough that he can feel the metal casing leaving ridges on his palm. “Fuck’s sake, Romanov,” he says, trying to pass the movement off as his usual dramatics, but keeping the light hidden as best as he can from someone who knows how to pull it straight out of his chest and could overpower him with ease right now. “You need to wear a bell. I have a heart condition. How did you even get in here? JARVIS? How did she even get in here?”

That there is no answer sets his heart to pounding faster.

Natasha stands still, the way she holds her body doing nothing but emphasising her apparent frailty. Tony is not fooled, he backs up another step.

Natasha offers him the remote. “You holed yourself up here. JARVIS wouldn’t let any of us in.”

“What did you do to him?” Tony doesn’t reach forward for the remote. He doesn’t like to be handed things normally, and right now he feels almost painfully vulnerable in the grimy t-shirt and pyjama pants.

She shakes her head, and puts the remote down carefully, backing up herself, hands raised. “Nothing, just shut off his sensors long enough to get in here. He should be running now.”

“JARVIS?” Tony demands sharply, ignoring the edge of underlying fear in his voice.

“Yes, sir. I am active.” There is a pause, then the AI’s voice turns _icy_. “Would you like me to remove Agent Romanov, sir?”

“…No. But make sure she doesn’t move.”

Natasha nods her acceptance of the terms and laces her fingers carefully behind her neck in the prisoner of war position.

Tony still doesn’t take his eyes off her. “What do you want?”

She doesn’t look away either. “I came to apologise. It is unforgivable that I waited this long.”

Tony sighs. “You know, Bruce won’t actually Hulk out and hurt you. He’s just…I think he feels bad that he wasn’t here or something.” Tony doesn’t mention his own gratitude that Bruce _wasn’t_ here to judge him too. It would have destroyed him to have one of the few friends he’d made since grade school turn on him.

Natasha blinks, but, unlike most people, follows his train of thought easily. “Doctor Banner has nothing to do with why I am here. It was my report that led to you being so misunderstood, it was my refusal to call Clint out on his actions that led to his attacking you, and it was my failure to correct Steve’s assumptions about you which meant you were never consulted on the weaponry we were being given by SHIELD and how it might affect you. Your current injury is entirely my fault.”

“Well…” Tony looks uncomfortable. “I caused some of it. I shouldn’t have hacked your files.”

“Phil gave you those before the whole Loki mess. You had every right to read them, _particularly_ after I made it clear that not knowing about Clint’s previous traumas would not be tolerated.”

She’s making him uncomfortable just looking at her. “You can lower your arms you know. As long as you don’t have any syringes of crazy ass drugs on you.”

She examines him, seemingly for sincerity. “JARVIS, I’m going to shift position.”

“I will be monitoring you, Agent Romanov,” the British voice says coldly, which is not actually permission.

Natasha chooses to take it as such and lowers her arm slowly, rolling her shoulders. “You can move too. I would never touch it without your explicit permission.”

Tony realises that his hand is still clenched tight over his chest. He flushes slightly but doesn’t move. “Only you and Pepper…and Steve, I guess, know how to remove it.”

She shakes her head in negation. “We wouldn’t, nor would we tell others how to.”

Tony snorts, but doesn’t contradict her.

“The combination to your safe. It’s Steve’s birthday.”

Tony flushes darker. “That’s-”

“That’s your private business and it is a poor proof of trustworthiness after the hurt I have caused. But I can swear to you that that secret too is safe with me.”

Tony sees no hint of a lie in her face, but then he wouldn’t, would he? “Why are you here?” he asks again. “I didn’t see you as the type for long meaningful apologies.”

Natasha cracks a very small smile. “I am not. That’s why I failed to deliver one until now, but just because I see no point in dwelling on my guilt and more in trying to never make that mistake again, does not mean you do not deserve an admission of my culpability.”

“I’m not going to…to ritualistically _execute_ you.”

Natasha’s smile broadens into something slyly amused. “I would love to see you try. But still, I thought you deserved that at least.”

“I…It’s fine.”

“Will we see you downstairs later?”

“I- No. I’m tired.”

“If that’s the case, then you should get some sleep, but Tony,” her hand flexes at her side as though she has considered reaching for him and remembered JARVIS’ earlier warning, “if it is simply that you do not wish us to see your vulnerability, you needn’t hide.”

“It’s not,” he denies by reflex, but knows that she sees the lie he couldn’t find in her.

Natasha nods her understanding and smiles softly. “Very well. But you’re always welcome among us.” There’s another second’s pause. “I’m going to leave now,” she states clearly.

Tony nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Natasha turns to do just that, and it’s not until several hours later that it occurs to Tony that she had enough faith in him to show him her unprotected back.


	4. Steve POV - From Maladjusted Heroes and Mistaken Geniuses Between 13C and 13D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After escaping Loki's world, Peggy comes to visit Tony and Steve in the hospital. Set between 13C and 13D of Maladjusted Geniuses and Mistaken Heroes. Steve's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst of Steve/Peggy flavour  
> Beta: Melpemone 
> 
> A/N: As always, these are the Deleted Scenes, I consider the stories in here canon to the universe.

Tony is asleep when Peggy glides, ever graceful, into the room. Steve jerks upright, fumbles a greeting and almost falls off the bed. By the time he’s recovered himself he’s beet red, the IV has been yanked from his hand, Tony is thoroughly awake - though still confused - and Peggy is laughing at him.

“I’ll just-” he mumbles and gestures for the door.

She gives him her infamous disapproving stare. “I’m here to see _both_ of you.” Her voice is calm and even, and ends any thought of fleeing the room.

Steve doesn’t protest, though he fusses uncomfortably with his sheets and the shirt he’s wearing. Peggy gives him a moment to pull himself together, instead turning the full weight of her stare on Tony. “And how are you, Ducky?” She brushes Tony’s fringe out of his eyes and she glances at his heart monitor, taking in the display. “You need to stop doing dangerous things,” Peggy fusses.

Tony bats her hand away, scowling, and looking like a little boy being chastised for falling out of a tree he’d been told not to climb. “I didn’t do anything. It was Loki,” he protests. “And I’m not five, stop it.”

Peggy pulls her hand back from where it had been cupping his face. “Well, you certainly seem fine.”

“I am fine. It was just,” there is the briefest of hesitations, almost unnoticeable, “just a dream.”

“How are you, Peggy?” Steve says. He’s still flushing, he can feel the burn in his ears, and he’s not at all ready to face her. But he knows, somehow, that Tony doesn’t want to be read too closely right now.

“I’m worried about you two idiots.” She sounds irritated, but it seems to be mostly for show. Peggy half reaches out for Steve, then draws back, glancing at her own hands as though self-conscious about them. Instead, her eyes perform the same check she had on Tony, glancing over his monitor and then his form before settling on his face, searching for clues. “You seem fine,” she’s forced to admit.

Steve reaches for her this time, his heart in his throat. He remembers her voice on the radio as he fell towards the sea, remembers her pulling herself out of his grip when she found out what he had done to Tony. “I’m- We are fine. I promise.”

“You’re fine,” she repeats, her grip tight as she takes his questing fingers. She looks dazedly relieved, but there is more emotion than Steve can parse in her voice. The moment stretches between them, fragile as a gossamer string. Tony breaks it with a jaw cracking yawn.

Peggy drops Steve’s fingers, turning to her godson with a frown. “And you, young man, need to rest. You might not have any physical injuries but being trapped in a dream by a mad god probably takes it out of you!”

Tony scowls again. “How do you know what happened? Is there _no_ doctor/patient confidentiality in this place?” He looks like he might be about to go on a rant about the many and varied ethical failings of SHIELD, but Peggy effectively forestalls that by saying, “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen your doctor. However, your blond friend was very informative.”

Tony groans, but honestly, no one can withstand Auntie Peggy’s interrogation techniques. She plays the nosy old woman card like a pro, and coupled with her concerned grandmother act, it’s deadly. Poor Thor never had a chance. “You can’t believe anything Thor says. He’s-”

“He’s perfectly charming,” Peggy interrupts blithely, “and very apologetic. He seems to think the crimes of his brother are his to make amends for.” She pins Tony with a glare. “I hope you’re being nice to him.”

Tony splutters. “Wait, why am I in trouble now? I’m grievously injured. I haven’t done anything.”

Peggy smiles at him. “Grievously injured?”

Tony nods. “Yes. Well… injured. A bit. My feelings are hurt and now you’re shouting at me.” His lower lip juts.

Steve can’t repress the chuckle, but stops abruptly when Peggy turns her attention on him once again. He’s not laughing at Tony… but Peggy’s face softens with a smile. “And if you’re playing willing audience to his amateur dramatics, Captain, I’m assuming you boys have learned to play nicely together.”

It is exceedingly strange having Peggy refer to him as though he was an unruly child and, for a moment, Steve can’t find any words. “Yes,” he says after a beat of silence. He’s talking to Peggy, but his eyes lock onto Tony’s dark gaze. “He’s a good guy to have around in a tight spot.”

For a second, Tony’s cheeks colour very slightly, but, by the time Peggy turns back to him, his usual smirk is in place. “And you, Ducky?” Peggy’s tone warns against lies or obfuscation, and Steve doesn’t begrudge her need to confirm his words. He deserves that, he expects it. But now, the knowledge of this doesn’t leave the same searing burn on his insides.

Tony’s smirk widens into a grin. “He’s Captain America; he must have _some_ good points.”

Peggy holds his gaze for a few seconds, and something must pass between them, before Tony breaks the moment with another jaw cracking yawn. Peggy touches a finger to his nose as if he were a small child. “Sleep,” she commands. “Steve will take me to find some food in this place.”

“But-”

“ _Sleep_. I’ll be here for the rest of the week.”

Tony settles at her reassurance. “I’m going to tell everybody you have a toy boy,” he mumbles, curling into the pillows a little as Peggy pulls the covers up to his collar bone.

Peggy doesn’t rise to his teasing, doesn’t even give him an unimpressed look. She simply pats his hand and kisses his forehead. “Shall we, Captain?”

Steve rises and takes her arm.


	5. A Late Night Call: Rhodey's POV by kerravon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhodey's POV of the phone call from chapter 8 of Iron Man, Yes, Tony Stark, Not Recommended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: ANGST, emotional Tony hurt, feels, unintentional bullying, misconceptions  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, gen, friendship
> 
> A/N: Although this fic is largely my own work and made up of Deleted Scenes from my own notes, and small snippets that didn't fit into the overall fic, I have always loved this piece. It was originally posted to the Misconceptions meta and is a fantastic interpretation that I have always considered part of the canon of this universe. It is with kerravon's permission that I am pleased and proud to announce A Late Night Call is now an official Deleted Scene of the First Impressions Universe.

James Rhodes groans as the phone jolts him out of a sound sleep, then quickly snatches it off the nightstand. He's always been able to wake up fast, often so rapidly that callers didn't even realize he'd been sleeping. "Rhodes here," he snaps professionally, sitting up and mentally readying himself for an emergency response as he notes the 02:54 on the bedside alarm clock.

"What's up, Sugarplum?" carols the familiar tones of his old friend, something…off about the greeting that he can't quite put his finger on, but it disturbs him on a visceral level.

He falls back on his pillow as he tries to figure it out. "The sky," he replies automatically as he ponders, staring at the ceiling. Then it hits him; Tony sounds sober. Several internal alarms blare at the realization, and the colonel is suddenly sitting bolt upright on the side of his bed. "What's wrong?" he demands, not willing to let Tony divert into his usual babbling.

"Wrong? I never said anything was wrong." The wavering uncertainty in Tony's voice indicates otherwise, and Jim narrows his eyes.

Yeah…no. Jim isn't buying it. Now that he's truly listening, he can hear the strained note in his friend's banter, the lilt that is just enough off to kick his 'Tony alarm' up another notch. Time to cut to the chase, then start working on damage control for whatever mess the genius has gotten into this time. "You never ring me at this time of night when you're still sober."

"Night?" comes the surprised response. Jim closes his eyes, relaxes slightly, and sighs. It was moments like these that he really wished Tony and Pepper had worked out; when they were a couple she'd never allowed the inventor to stay so long in his workshop that he forgot the time of day.

The pilot's eyes fly open again at Tony's next sentence. "Oh yeah. Sorry. I was working on a…"

"Wait, Tony! Did you just apologize?" he blurts in shock, then tries to cover his surprise with a joke. "Wow, having Captain America as a house guest has finally taught you some manners.”

Apparently he has inadvertently stumbled onto part of the problem, because not only does Tony not snark back, but he suddenly sounds more strained. The pilot winces at the forced laugh that emits from the phone receiver after a moment of telling hesitation. Tony recovers quickly though, and launches with fake cheerfulness into, “I guess. Listen. Cupcake. I just had a question for you.”

"No," he responds on autopilot, distracted by trying to work out what was wrong. Because something was wrong. Badly wrong, with an 'I'm being held hostage against my will but can't tell you about it' overlay to every word that sets his teeth on edge.

"What?" The single word is choked out in a combination of shock and hurt that Rhodey hasn't heard from Tony since the night Pepper left.

'What the hell?' The Colonel jams his phone up against his ear as he bolts from the bed and starts snagging the pieces of his uniform from where he dropped them a few hours ago. He clearly needs to deal with this in person. Meanwhile, he makes his own tone even more joking to try and snap the sensitive genius out of this…whatever this is. “The only time you ever ask me anything in that tone of voice is when you want me to do something that could get me court martialled or arrested, usually both.”

He locates his pants draped over a chair, grabs them, and begins tugging them on, only to stop in alarm as the billionaire whispers pleadingly, almost tearfully, "Rhodey….please?"

That's it. No more attempts at subtlety or humor. He flips into 'Commanding Officer' mode and flat out demands, "What's wrong? Where are you?" If he's been kidnapped again, Jim is going to rip out the perpetrators' livers and eat them with fava beans.

“No, no. I'm fine. I just...I wanted to ask you something," Tony interjects hurriedly, trying unsuccessfully to reassure his best friend. No, that wasn't happening, not tonight.

"You can ask me anything." 'Shirt, shirt…ah, there it is!'

“I...Rhodey...how...howdoyoumakepeoplelikeyou?” The hesitance followed by the rushed word salad makes the pilot button his shirt even faster.

"Again, Tony," he reponds with false calm, not able to make heads or tails of the question. "Slower, OK?"

Despite the reasonable reply, Tony takes offense. “Don't talk to me like that! I'm not...I'm not...” he splutters, and Jim has a sudden mental image of a rain-soaked, shivering kitten hissing at potential rescue.

"I know. I know you're not," he soothes gently. What Tony is 'not' right now, is rational. His verbal level suggests that he hasn't slept in days, but he hasn't even mentioned his current project. From years of experience, Jim knows that means the genius is currently brooding more than working. "But I need you to slow down." He takes meticulous care to keep his tone quiet and reassuring as he grabs a pair of clean socks, concentrating intensely on his friend's reply as he pulls them on.

Even so, he can barely make out the inventor's shamed question, "How do you make people like you?"

"Why?" he asks softly. The billionaire usually didn't even notice, much less care, if the whole world hated him, and when he did, he used his 'asshole mask' as a defense mechanism to prevent anyone from discovering his weakness.

“Don't be angry with me,” Tony blurts, begging, reading something into the one-word question that Jim is certain he didn't put there. “Don't. I know I'm...I know. I'm trying to fix it OK. Please.” The normally loquacious industrialist is actually so distraught that he's at a loss for words.

Now Jim is picturing a bedraggled, soaking-wet, abused kitten cowering behind a dumpster, and tempers his voice accordingly. “I'm not angry with you, but I want to know what brought this on. You've never changed for anybody. Why now?”

There's an uncomfortable pause, then Tony mutters in humiliation, “Because Rogers thought I was hitting on him today and I was just trying to be nice."

That didn't add up. Jim, now lacing his shoes, allows a small bit of his confusion to seep into his next query. "Today? But you've lived together for weeks."

Another prolonged silence as Tony uncharacteristically pauses to choose his words. "Yeah...we don't really...y'know talk.”

That makes even less sense. These people live together, work together, and go into battle together. How could they not talk? They're a team! He does his best to consolidate his reaction into words. “How? You're the Avengers, surely you-”

"I am not an Avenger. I'm a consultant." Despite his friend's valiant attempts to sound nonchalant, the words are absolutely dripping with shame and hurt and rejection.

"What?!?" Jim manages to keep both the anger and the outrage out of his voice, but just barely. Tony took on a suicidal mission in the name of these so-called 'Avengers', has been handling their press for weeks, let them live in his own home, and now they've kicked him to the curb?

"Sorry," comes the almost tearful reply.

What. The. Everloving. Hell.

Jim snags his coat and strides determinedly towards the door. Whatever is happening in that tower is about to receive his personal attention. "I'm coming over."

"You don't need to-" Tony starts, but Jim can tell by his tone that he's almost sagging in relief.

Gritting his teeth, he repeats, "I'm. Coming. Over."

"Alright." Now his friend sounds resigned.

Jim isn't sure what's going on in his friend's head, so he tries, "I won't be long."

"Yeah." More resignation. What the…?

'Oh, for crying out loud,' Jim thinks as he gets it. “Tony, this is not to avoid answering your question. I promise OK.”

Another pause, but then Tony sounds actually grateful. Bingo. "Alright. Thanks."

"I'm on my way." He disconnects the call as he slips into the driver's seat of his car, grateful that he's currently in New York and that the traffic is the lightest at this time of night. He should make it to Tony's tower in 30 minutes or less. Even so, angry as he is, he's going to need both hands for the wheel to keep from having an accident.

He tries to organize his thoughts as he drives, and maybe get a handle on the situation that he's about to walk into. Tony seems to like these people enough to care what they think about him. Knowing his friend, the billionaire has probably not only given them rooms in his home, he's probably given them suites. Maybe even floors. Tony had been so exited about his team moving into Stark Tower, especially Rogers. He snorted. The inventor always responded to situations like this by building or buying everything he could think of. It must be like Christmas every day in Avengers Tower.

Or, it would be if Tony had his choice. But apparently he doesn't since he's not an Avenger? Despite the press conferences, helping to pay for the rebuild of Manhattan, donating living quarters to the team, showing up to all the battles, and volunteering for a suicide mission during the Battle for Manhattan, he apparently still doesn't meet SHIELD's standards. What does he have to do to qualify? Sacrifice his first-born child?

Jim's eyes widen as something clicks. Rogers. Tony sounded off from the very beginning of the phone call, but got much more defensive the moment the Air Force Colonel had joked about Rogers teaching the billionaire some manners, and almost broke down completely when he admitted that the Captain thought Tony was 'hitting' on him. In fact, that is almost certainly the reason he wants to know how to make people like him. 'People' in this case means Rogers.

Now, James Rhodes makes no attempt to hide the fact that his childhood hero was Captain America. Heck, the man is probably the reason he went into the military to begin with. Still, he has nothing on Tony's inner fanboy, no matter how much the industrialist tries to deny it. Growing up with a father that not only knew the Captain, but idolized him, how could Tony not put Rogers on a pedestal? After all, Howard had apparently made no attempt to hide the fact that his search for the super soldier was more important than his own son. Then Tony's godmother, the Captain's sweetheart, had filled the child's head with so many stories of 'derring do' that hero worship was pretty much inevitable. Over the years Tony has hidden it beneath layers of cynicism and snark, but Jim knows that it's there. Being on a team of superheroes with the man himself must have been a dream come true…until he was told he wasn't on the team at all.

Jim sees red, and pushes the accelerator down just a bit more. Hopefully Tony is just overtired and has misread an innocent comment or two, but the Colonel doubts it. If he's right, and Rogers has been mistreating his friend, Jim and 'The Captain' are going to have words.

He snorts, a corner of his mouth quirking up in black humor as he pulls into the garage under Tony's tower. 'Well, I guess I might just get my childhood wish. Before this day is done, I might just meet Captain America.'


	6. Steve POV - From Cuts and Bruises between Chapters 5 & 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Based on this review from chapter 4 of Cuts and Bruises by the ever wonderful kerravon: _You know, I was just thinking...(scary, tell me about it)...Steve is always portrayed as a morning person, an early riser, at least in fanfic (but also in canon?). Sunshine, new day, new beginning...starting with a hearty breakfast. However, so far in this series 1) He and Clint have the angst-ridden breakfast-from-hell with Tony and Homicidal!Rhodey right after they realize what they've done 2) He is confronted by Bruce about his behavior the morning after he returns from India while the doctor is making tea in the kitchen after "the impotent rage that had kept him awake all night" 3) He walks into the kitchen for breakfast and finds Peggy there, with all the subsequent condemnation and angst. I dunno...but if I were Steve, I think I might start my day a little later (say, around noonish), and stay the heck away from that kitchen!_ It was an idea I loved, because, although I hadn’t thought about it, I realised just how much character and plot defining interaction had taken place there. Set after Chapter 5 of Cuts and Bruises on the morning after Clint’s great penguin heist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: ANGST, guilty!Steve, guilt for everyone, guilty!Clint, penguins – blame Cyberbutterfly, when I wrote it, it was a joke, she made me go through with it, no real ending, that’s the problem with a lot of these Deleted Scenes.  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, gen, pre-slash (no, I’m still not announcing the pairing), beginning of friendship, distrust between the Avengers.  
> Beta: kerravon  
> A/N: A Deleted Scene and so part of my own personal canon, set the morning after Clint’s penguin heist – between chapters 5 and 6 of Cuts and Bruises. I couldn’t get in Steve starting his day at noon, but I hope you all like his thoughts on the KITCHEN OF DOOM.

**Team Breakfast Isn’t Always As Easy As Scrambled Egg**

Steve was perfectly aware that it was a stupid superstition, but that didn’t change his irrational desire to avoid the kitchen on the communal level at all costs. He mourned its loss sometimes. It had been his favourite room. The TV room was too big and too plush and filled with electronics he didn’t understand and couldn’t work, and even before it was tainted with the knowledge of how badly he’d misunderstood Tony’s intentions and the burning memories of all the needlessly cruel things he and Clint had said in there, he had felt uneasy. The huge room had never been a refuge. Tony’s blasé statement that JARVIS was watching them at all times in that room, coupled with the feeling that he could easily get lost in a room bigger than the _apartment_ he had once had in Brooklyn, meant he could never truly relax.

The gym is the same, tainted now with the knowledge that the fury with which he had worked out, driven to destroying punching bags out of spite and feeling righteous that he was _Captain America_ and too _good_ to hit Stark, was completely unjustified. The gym has never given him peace.

Clint’s floor, and Natasha’s, have always felt off limits. A boundary Steve had respected. They work together, in a dangerous environment, and they are extremely professional. He doubts he could replicate their relationship if he were ever lucky enough to find someone to love _him_ as deeply as they do one another. They deserve a space where they can be just them.

His own floor had, like the TV room, been too big and too lonely, even when the others were there, filling space with their presence. Steve doesn’t sleep much, he never did, and since the serum means sleep is less of a demand, he is lucky if he gets three hours a night, and in the darkness he wanders from room to room, seeking something that he can never find. At least the floor is big enough that it wears him out.

But the kitchen, decorated tastefully in soft, sea greens and blues, had been his favourite. He couldn’t work the elaborate coffee machine and was reduced to pushing buttons at random and hoping for the best, or waiting for Clint to do it for him, but caffeine doesn’t work on him anyway so he was often just as happy to drink tea which could be made with the much simpler kettle. And the stove had been relatively simple, once Clint had shown him how. He used to cook breakfasts here for the pair, or the three, of them to eat at the slightly rounded, family sized table. Steve had loved being able to take care of his team like that. It makes his stomach roll now, to think that he’d never once thought to ask Tony to join them; to think that he had even _taken credit_ for caring for his team, for keeping food on the table, when it was Tony and JARVIS who made certain that the kitchen was always stocked.

If it had just been that, Steve would have forced himself to man up, to continue as he has always done, but this time, to try and get it right. He’d make breakfasts like he always used to and _this time_ invite Tony – he’s fought and bled alongside the man and doesn’t even know how he takes his eggs, for cripes sake. He’d try and draw Tony out of his – understandably – wary shell, by revealing the weakness that he’s too embarrassed to share even with Clint, and ask Tony to walk him through the coffee machine again, slowly. He’d make sure that the kitchen is stocked with things _Tony_ likes and not just what _they_ eat because he’s reasonably sure that the inventor doesn’t eat enough, if at all, when he’s sequestered in his workshop.

But his superstitious _fear_ runs far deeper than all his other wrongs. Nothing he does, nothing he says to himself to try and shake this childish behaviour, changes the fact that his mind insists that _bad_ things happen in that kitchen. The image of Peggy ripping her hand out of his floats before his eyes every time he hesitates in the doorway. Which is why, it’s all he can do not to flinch, whimper and go back to bed to pull the duvet over his head, or possibly just hide under it, when he gets back from his morning run and steps onto the common floor to find Clint hovering, looking worse for wear in the hallway, and bearing a spatula as he says hesitantly to Steve’s feet, “Breakfast?”

“I…uh…here?”

Clint peeps up at him before quickly ducking his head again, but not before Steve sees, with a flash of sympathy, how red rimmed his eyes are, sunken in his unusually pale face. “Not…It’s on the table.” He looks almost apologetic that he doesn’t have whatever he’s made in his hands to give Steve this very second.

Steve can’t deny that the smells emanating from the kitchen are mouth-watering. The gym, he supposes, can wait. Still, the dread in his stomach threatens to overtake even his hunger as he glances at the kitchen door. “Can we eat in here?”

“Suuure?” Clint drawls out, slow and looking for a second like he’s contemplating teasing Steve. “But didn’t you tell me that eating at a table was what separated men from barbarians? I thought you liked to have breakfast at the table?”

Steve flushes. Yes, the modern casual attitude to eating off trays, in front of the TV, or even with your _fingers_ , is new and still slightly shocking to him, but Clint’s words make him sound like an ass. “I-” he starts, not knowing what he intends to say.

Clint talks over him before he starts to flounder. “It’s fine, Cap. I’ll go grab some trays.”

There’s a hitch to his voice that makes Steve put an arm out, pulling Clint back before he can dart out the door. “Not that I’m not grateful,” his stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and he punctuates his thanks with a self-deprecating smile, “but why? You don’t usually make breakfast. Didn’t _you_ tell _me_ that every day you got up before noon was a waste of not being on mission?”

“I wanted to do something nice for you. And Stark, but he _is_ still in bed. You’re actually the only one awake. Well, and me. Tasha’s still asleep, and I don’t think Banner’s even here so…” he seems to realise he’s babbling, and cuts himself off. “It’s kind of a blur,” he says, voice raspy, _dehydrated from the alcohol,_ Steve thinks, automatically handing Clint the water bottle he’s been swigging from during his run. Clint doesn’t take it, continuing instead, “but I _think_ I might have fucked up last night.”

“Nah, you only stole the local zoo’s penguins and nearly got Tony and I arrested when we tried to return them.”

Clint uses the arm Steve isn’t gripping to cover his face. “ _God_ ,” he mutters. His body tightens, like an invisible puppet master is pulling a string and he straightens into an at attention posture, eyes locking onto the wall over Steve’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make it up to you. And to...” He stops again and breathes deeply. “I won’t-”

“And the more concerning issue is,” Steve takes his turn to cut off Clint’s words, “that you were drinking. You told me you didn’t drink, Hawkeye. You told me your dad was a drunk and that you didn’t like to do it.”

The use of Clint’s codename seems to relax him slightly, as Steve had hoped the implicit assurance that he is still on the team would. “I…not often. Last night was…bad. If it’s any consolation, Tasha’s pissed at me.”

It’s no consolation at all. Steve wants them _all_ to be happy. _Stupid kitchen_ , he thinks irrationally, _putting that look in Clint’s eye._ “What happened?” he asks, trying to look like he hasn’t just been blaming a probably evil room.

For the first time, Clint meets Steve’s eyes. The expression in them is worse than the signs of his obviously rough night. “I…There’s no way we can ever make it up to Stark, Cap. What we did…It’s never going to be okay. We’re never going to be the team Phil wanted us to be. And sometimes…” he falls silent, spreads his hands wide.

“You feel like the guilt is eating you alive,” Steve finishes softly for him.

Clint can only nod and winces slightly, the motion obviously making his head hurt. “And at least you didn’t…you only _said_ things. Sticks and stones and all that. I _hit_ him. I know what it means to have been attacked by someone. I am _enemy_. Forever in Stark’s mind, that’s all I can be.”

Steve wants to be reassuring. He wants to tell Clint about taking Tony for pizza last night, how he had made Tony laugh, how that wariness when he looks at them had disappeared from his eyes for whole minutes at a time. The words stick in his throat. He can’t reassure Clint, not when he isn’t certain that the man isn’t _right_. It’s certainly nothing less than they deserve if he is. “All we can do is try,” he says gently instead, the words for himself as much as Clint. “All we can do is make sure he knows that we were wrong.”

Clint snorts. “Chocolate chip and blueberry pancakes are a pretty shit apology, Cap.”

Steve’s stomach rumbles again. “They’re a start,” he says instead. “Put them in the oven to keep warm.”

“But aren’t you hungry now?”

Steve ignores him, and his still growling stomach, and raises his eyes to the ceiling. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“When Tony wakes up, will you let him know he’s invited to breakfast, please?”

“Of course. Where should he report to?”

Steve’s stomach clenches at the wording and the sarcastic tone. “It isn’t an order, JARVIS,” he says softly, looking away. “It’s a request. If he would like to…” The Howling Commandoes had always eaten together, it had been what made them family, the breaking of bread runs deep in a man’s subconscious. “He’s part of the team. We’d like him to join us. We’ll be…” He can’t say the kitchen, he can’t risk something as tenuous as this olive branch on _that place_. “We’ll be on the balcony,” he says instead.

“Would you like me to wake sir now?”

“No!” Steve says quickly. “No, he had a long night.” Tony had gone to the workshop after he and Steve had finished their pizza, who knows how much – how little – sleep he has had. “No, let him sleep. We’ll wait.”


	7. Violence isn't the Answer (Except when it is)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scenes from the First Impressions, Second Chances universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the conversation currently going on in the comments of chapter 56 of Misconceptions, right after Kerravon's wonderful chapter.
> 
> OK, I have some explaining to do here. As I've said, on many MANY occasions, my mental impression of IMY was always a little different. I intended to play an (at the time) super popular trope (Tony thinks he's only in the Avengers for his money) in the most backwards way imaginable (The Avengers think Tony's only there for his money). It was more...an experiment than anything else. When I wrote it like that, the scene where Clint attacks him was only ever...a play ground shove. It wasn't ever supposed to imply the violence that readers generally saw (which takes me on a wonderful rant about intertextuality, but because I love you all, I'll spare you that). 
> 
> So, I started to think about it, and I started to think about it through the eyes of someone reading it, instead of someone with the benefit of access to my imagination. And it occurred to me that Clint and Steve see this very differently from either of us. All of my male friends have come to blows at one time or another, in the same way that all of my female friends have gossiped about each other at one time or another. Wile I saw it as a very tiny incident, and the readers saw it as unacceptable violence, Clint and Steve both saw it as a natural escalation of conflict, not ideal, but something that had happened to both of them before.
> 
> Then I started thinking about those other times, and how those were different. People have pointed out that in Steve's past his willingness to fight was overshadowed by his 'scrappy kid has guts' thing because he was tiny, and because he usually lost. Clint usually saves his aggression for the sparring mat, or for those who have the training to deal with him and doesn't blindly lash out at civilians. 
> 
> So what's different in that chapter? Well, Tony is aware from the jump that 'Rogers could kill him with ease.' That well developed instinct to fight against any and all injustice he perceives is more intimidating in his new body. And Clint is...not in a good place, which is not to say that Clint's problems over shadow Tony's, but he is not making his decisions *rationally.* He is making the decisions that animals who gnaw their own legs off to get out of traps make. He feels trapped and attacked, he fears what might happen to the woman he loves, he's scared and he's traumatised and he lashes out. It's not a decision he would normally make, and it's not made for good reasons. It's also completely different to what I imagined those reasons would be until I really started thinking about it.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys the following segments. They are all in chronological order, though I haven't dated them. For those that care, I imagine the first to be when Steve was about 14 (1931), the second when he was about 17 (1934), the third to be Clint's first or possibly second mission with SHIELD, the fourth about a year after he and Natasha started dating, the fifth just prior to the Avengers and the final is set during IMY/PWGI.
> 
> Thanks for reading
> 
> Rating: PG-15  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: ANGST, hurt Clint, hurt Tony, physical violence, beginning of sexual assault in part 1 (doesn't happen and non-main character), some slightly graphic imagery in part three and mention of off screen, non-main character violent death, allusion to mind control and Clint and Natasha's very messed up relationship.  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, Clint/Natasha (mentioned),   
> Unbeta'd

“Leave her alone!” Steve can’t keep the blush from rising to his cheeks when the big man turns to him. His voice is high, still unbroken, and wavering, the cold air making it hard to breath and robbing his voice of all power and volume.

He’s aware that ragged and grimy from doing his best to keep up with Bucky as they hauled boxes around the dockyard, flushed, not just with embarrassment but with the constant struggle for air, he doesn’t cut the most imposing figure. He’s aware that his slight, short frame, not filling out as he had always hoped makes him look like a kid.

“You wanna keep moving?” The guy asks, a lazy smirk on his lips and his hand keeping the brunette pinned to the wall, Steve not even worth the trouble of seeing off.

The lady is wearing clothes too bright and too tight and not enough. Steve’s not an idiot. He knows what she is, what she does, but he also doesn’t like the look of fear in her heavily made up eyes, doesn’t like the grimace of pain tightening the painted lips, doesn’t like the fact that she’s not telling him to get lost herself. He shakes his head.

The guy snorts and turns his back, focussing his attention on her considerable assets and moving one hand from pinning her shoulder against course brick works to pawing at her. “Stick around then, kid. You might learn something from a real man.”

She mewls. A sound born of pain and shame and nothing to do with desire, or even simulation of such.

Steve stands frozen. He should help her, but he simply can’t move, his throat is all but closed, his own whistling breaths louder than any sounds she is trying to conceal.

He sees the rough, uncaring hand hike up her skirt, sees a flash of her panties and she turns her face away from him, expression tightening.

_You just gonna stand there, darlin’? I’ll charge you for a show. Best run on back home._

She should be speaking to him, it’s far from the first time he’s interrupted these sorts of doings.

He’s moving before he’s really decided he’s going to do so, as shaky on his legs as a new born animal, head swimming with a need for air.

The attack isn’t graceful, it’s barely planned. It can, in fact, barely be called an attack. When he has survived this and he and Bucky are laughing about it and slugging back cheap cream soda and cheaper chunks of bread, he will tell Bucky that it was a calculated punch, a lunge forward, a decision of how best to apply his virtually non-existent strength. An outsider watching might notice that he held a fist out and then all but stumbled over his own feet driving his whole weight forward into the man’s groin.

The man crumples at the knees, going straight down, purple in the face and cursing and threatening while he clutches at him. The lady twists out of his grip and kicks him hard in the side, keeping him down. She crouches calmly, rifling in his pockets while he curses and flails helpless.

“You’d best go.” It’s not a thank you, but it’s not condemnation either, and Steve knows a lot of these girls, knows the hard stone faces they show the world and he’s not mistaken to think that hers has perhaps softened a little.

Steve can only nod but he trusts in the thawing of her expression that she will protect him, that she will not allow him to be run to ground while he stumbles his way home.

*

Steve’s so furious his whole vision is tinted red. “You- _Why_?”

In the rational part of his mind, the part that knows Bucky would never ever _ever_ hurt him like this on purpose, he knows that the awkward fidgeting, the uneasy tinge to Bucky’s smile is guilt. That rational part of his mind knows that “Aww, c’mon, Stevie, she wasn’t good enough to be your first girlfriend,” is an apology. The rational part of his mind knows that Hattie Green really _isn’t_ his type, she’s nice enough, and she’s sharp and funny and he’s always liked a woman who knows her own mind, but she’s _fast_ and she makes him uncomfortable and she’s much more suited to a night of dancing and fun with Bucky than the movie theatre outing he had planned.

Unfortunately, the rational part of his mind isn’t even close to making these decisions when Bucky’s grin widens. “Hey, no hard feelings. The early bird gets the worm.”

The red intensifies, making the wold narrow down to Bucky’s grin and Steve’s rushing blood. He clenches his hands, fingers digging into palms. “She was the first girl who ever agreed to a date with me.” He’s humiliated by the hurt choked quality of his voice.

If Bucky had dropped the smile then, put a hand on his shoulder and offered an honest apology, Steve would have cried, and he would have been ashamed forever, their friendship may never have recovered.

Bucky’s his best friend. His taunting pleased expression merely widens. “Well, maybe. But she hadn’t met me at that point.”

Steve’s fist lashes out before he’s even considered it. A wild haymaker that nearly overbalances him, but it smacks cleanly into Bucky’s face with a sharp sound, snapping his friend’s head back.

There’s a moment of silence, the pair of them breathing heavily. Bucky sticks out his tongue, testing his lip – swelling fast, but unbloodied – and the pads of his fingers carefully explore the damage to his face. “’S gonna bruise.”

Steve can see that from the marks, he’s familiar with punches, just not usually from this side. He shakes his hand, flexing the fingers.

Bucky smiles again and then winces. “Hurts, don’t it.”

“Not as much as yours.”

“Fine, whatever, Punk. You happy now?”

“I suppose.” Steve offers a slight sly smirk of his own. “She’s more your type anyway.”

“You Hattie callin’ easy?” Bucky asks, amused offence.

Steve’s offence isn’t as feigned. He’s still a little raw, still hurt, but he knows Bucky didn’t know, and he knows Hattie wouldn’t have enjoyed a night with him anyway. How much worse to have a _bad_ first date? “No. Of course not, I’d never say that about a lady. I’m callin’ you easy.”

Bucky laughs, ever forgiving and instead of forcing Steve to keep talking about it, he graciously changes the subject. “Good hit.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve seen a lot of them up close.” Steve’s eyes are still glued to the rapidly discolouring mark on Bucky’s face. He’s impressed with himself actually. Who knew he’d learned so much from Bucky’s boxing instruction?

Bucky slings an arm about his shoulder and pulls him close, proud and protective in a way Steve will permit from no one else. “That you have. Let’s find something to celebrate with.”

*

Given a choice, Clint would have been running the second his feet hit the tarmac. He’s tired and full of too many emotions to parse. He feels sick with adrenaline and tension and the constant ups and downs the last few days have wrought.

But he’s an agent of SHIELD now, a proper one. There are days when he wants to throw it all in, to pick up his things and go, run, but it would be a harder choice than any of his other decisions to ditch, to cut and run and go to ground, have been.

Even his bow isn’t his.

And he is making difference, a difference for _good_ , even when he believes nothing else he believes that. He believes that SHIELD intends to protect those who can’t protect themselves and, more even than that, he is _Coulson’s_ asset. Coulson takes his honour very seriously; he wouldn’t point Clint at a mark who was a purely political kill, not even at one who was simply on the shadowed side of the line. Directed by Coulson, Clint knows, as well as he knows where his arrows will land, that those he is told to target are the worst of humanity.

So, even with tension that pulling him so tight it’s almost painful humming through him, he stays and debriefs. He writes up his paperwork. He signs his weaponry back in to the armoury. He has his mandatory post mission check up.  

He’s barely heard the word dismissed before he’s running.

He’s coming back, of course he is. He’s doing good, SHIELD value him, even if only for his aim, they see him as a valued soldier and not merely as a tool. And where would he go? Working for SHIELD has burned all of his bridges under him.

But the quiet pride when Coulson told him that his probationary status had been removed and that he was a level two asset now has been eclipsed by the sight of Warner, burned into his eyelids and there every time he lies down.

Even knowing that he put an arrow in each of the throats of the men who did that to her, knowing that he protected the rest of the team, won’t remove those images. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sight of her slight, girlish figure, barely out of high school and now, never going to do the things she had talked about on the transport with such excitement.

She’s never going to climb Mount Killamanjaro, she’s never going to head up her own team, she’s never going to marry her boy or take her mom to Paris. That would be unjust enough, but kids die all the time, of sudden illness or car accidents or a stray bullet in a hold up.

Sweet, vivacious, _brave_ Warner though, should never have been carved up for sport. Clint hadn’t even been able to bring her body home.

He hadn’t had enough hands to carry all the pieces, and hadn’t had enough time to go back.

And so, he runs, hoping alcohol will scour away, at least for a time, the images that the psych evaluation and Coulson’s best efforts will never remove from him. He should have remembered that drinking only adds self-loathing to whatever drove him to try and find forgetfulness in the first place, it’s why he doesn’t do it.

The brawl is inevitable. More, even than the burn of cheap whiskey, this is what he wanted all along. He grins through bloodied teeth as another boot impacts his midriff, curling around his wounded side with a whimper. He’s given up trying to regain his feet. He just wants to lie here and feel.

Clint takes a moment to squint upwards through rapidly swelling-shut eyes. There are more than he thought there was, he’s going to be limping back, or he’s going to have to call Coulson to get him, but there’s some vicious glee in the obvious bruises marking up the faces of the nearest four and the ringleader.

He didn’t go down easy. His back is a line of fire from the pool cue, a reminder of what it took to get him down at all.

The air rushes out of him in a whimper when another strike connects, He’ll be pissing blood for a week, and introspection takes a back seat as Clint ducks his head back down, pulling his knees up, taking the beating (taking it like penance because he had been watching the team, and he hadn’t even noticed Warner was missing) but protecting his head, and his internal organs and his hands.

Next time, Clint thinks as the blackness begins to wash up, promising to take him away, to give him more rest than he’s had since he entered that warehouse and realised what he was looking at – realised what was causing that metallic iron smell, heavy in the air – next time, he’ll start a fight with someone who doesn’t have quite as many buddies with him.

*

“Alright.” Clint shakes off the jaw cracking yawn. “Show me again.”

Slowly, fluidly, Natasha moves. Clint only realises he’s become distracted by the lithe grace and power in her form when her ankle hooks around his and dumps him on the mat.

He’s prevented from sitting up by the small, but wickedly sharp dagger that’s suddenly at his throat.

“Pay attention,” the words are sweet poison, and Clint tries a grin.

“Hey, not my fault I was distracted by my phenomenally hot girlfriend.” His arms reach up, planning to grab her waist.

The dagger digs into his hand, drawing blood between the bottom two knuckles of the index and middle finger of his left hand.

“Owww! What?! Tash! Fuck’s sake.”

“Pay attention.”

And for the first time that night, Clint does. He sees the strain under the habitual cool expression, he sees the very slight tremor in the hand that doesn’t have a weapon, he sees the slight wildness in her eyes, a reflection of horrors no longer in front of her. “Alright.”

He lies still until she gets off of him and he accepts the hand that hauls him back to his feet, an alarming and near desperate strength in the grip.

This time he watches closely, battle focussed.

When it is his turn, he manages a passable recreation. At Natasha’s insistence, he does it again and again, past developing muscle memory, into the point where he hurts, where he’s exhausted, where he would have asked a superior for a break. For Natasha, and for her alone, he pushes onwards, grimly determined. He has no idea what ghosts are lingering behind her eyes, they talk of everything he and her, he trusts her with his life, with his very soul, but by unspoken acceptance, they don’t speak of the past.

He knows though that whatever it is, that it is important to her that he master this.

Her shaking is less, the wildness less pronounced with every improvement he makes.

Finally though, it’s dawn, and Clint has a range assessment in a couple of hours. He’s sweat soaked, and barely able to stand on limbs that tremble with exertion. He’s not allowing her capable hands to guide him through the moves now, so much as he is leaning into her strength to hold him up.

“Again.”

“Tash-”

The slap startles of them, ringing loud in the empty, echoing gym as her open palm connects with his face.

The first thing any new recruit to SHIELD learns is not to go near a pissed off Black Widow.

Clint doesn’t even pause to consider. He drives a fist into her face with all the power his wrung out body can still muster. Natasha topples backwards with a surprised sound that in someone else might be a cry, and it’s with nothing so much as relief that he topples down with her, half on top of her so her forehead is against his cheek, reddening with the clear imprint of fingerprints.

“It’s okay, Tash. I can protect myself. I’m going to be okay.”

The second thing any new recruit to SHIELD learns is that the Black Widow doesn’t show emotions, that she’s scarier even that Fury that way.

Clint just tightens his hands in her hair, holding her close when he feels wetness, too much to be the bloody nose he’s doubtless given her.

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. I can look out for myself. I’m fine.”

Natasha makes a slight hiccupping snort and then pulls back. She wipes the flat of her palm over face in a childish gesture and looks with distaste at the mess of blood and sweat and tears her fingers come away stained with. “I know.”

“Good. ‘Cause I am.”

She eyes his still shaking form and something very like remorse creeps into her eyes. “Will you be alright for your assessment?”

Clint does not groan at the thought of having to get up off this mat. His muscles are already stiffening. It’s going to be agonising. He smiles instead, a slight quirk to his lips, but real nonetheless. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. You can come and watch if you want?”

There is no snappy comeback and assurance that The Black Widow has far more important things to do with her day. She reaches a hand out, and for a second Clint thinks she’s going to childishly wipe the handful of gunk on his shirt. He sighs inwardly, but he would no more flinch from Natasha in this state than he would use his fists on her with real intent to harm.

Instead she uses only the lightest of touches to trace the outline of her palm left on his face.

“If I have an obvious hand shaped bruise on my face, I am going to tell everyone it’s because you caught me with one of the junior agents.”

It’s the first time anything resembling a smile has lightened her eyes all week. “Oh? You hate one of the babies enough to want me to kill them?”

“Possessive, Tash. Possessive and weird.”

She ignores him, still tracing over the mark with an intent expression that he recognises from the fascination she displays from the marks he allows her to leave on his body in other ways.

“You like it?” he can’t help but ask, and his voice rasps down, deep and low.

“You would have blocked anyone else. You _let_ me hit you.”

It warms him that she thinks so, that she thinks he’s just that good. He never even saw it coming. “Only you though, and even then-”

He doesn’t like the sight of his mark on her anywhere near as much as she likes his.

“This?” She removes her hand from Clint’s face and touches delicately at her nose and the side of her face. There’s a patch that will darken to a bruise, but he can tell from here than nothing is broken, once she has washed off the blood, still dripping, she will look no worse than she often does in the after math of a mission. It still makes something tighten in his stomach to see it.

Natasha licks away the blood gathering on her upper lip and breathes in sharply, hesitating uncharacteristically before saying with none of her steady measured tones, “I needed it.”

“Tash!” Clint blanches.

“No! No, I mean…I needed…I’m sorry about tonight.”

Clint thinks of the hours repeating Natasha’s drill over and over again, thinks of the fact that some of the positions he’s been forced into during interrogations have been less painful, thinks of the fact that he’s dehydrated and sleep deprived and in no condition for his annual assessment. He thinks of how very _afraid_ Natasha had been that he didn’t know this, forcing him to learn it with an intensity that implied he would die for lack of it tomorrow.

“You don’t need to be. You’re just looking out for me.”

“Yes. And I needed to know that even when you are not perfect, that you can still fight, still defend yourself, still bring down an enemy set on hurting you.”

“You’re not an enemy.”

“But I was hurting you.”

He pulls her close, a hand splayed on the flat of her back, lips against her temple, his whole body reassuring that he knows, that he understands, that there is nothing to forgive. “But sometimes it feels so good when you hurt me,” he teases because he doesn’t know how else to reassure that he is whole.

“I will slap you again.”

“Oooo, bring it on, baby.”

The mere fact that she doesn’t follow through on her threat, (or dig fingers between his ribs, or tug his hair) tells him that she is still troubled. Clint pulls back, regarding her carefully and ready to forgive anything because, in a public training room, Natasha trusts him enough to let her true feelings shine in her eyes.

“Want to know how you can make it up to me?”

There’s the tiniest flare of apprehension, but Clint knows it’s only ingrained habit and not truly directed at him. He waits for it pass and Natasha nods, once, sharp and decisive as though accepting a mission.

“Come and watch me shoot.”

He sees the thousand automatic refusals rise to her lips. Their relationship is common knowledge, but they don’t usually flaunt it by playing cheerleader for each other. “Will you hit every target?” She’s still afraid, afraid of something nameless, something long gone.

Still, Clint would promise things a great deal harder. “In your name, My Lady.” He brushes lips across the back of the hand that she had touched him with, the one still soiled with her blood in parody of a thousand late night movies.

“Then lead on, Bold Knight.”

The pain of standing makes him want to cry, just drawing his bow is an exercise in torture, but Clint doesn’t break his promise.

Later, he finds Natasha stroking her fingers carefully over her own bruise, he raises an eyebrow at her, worry duelling for dominance with guilt in his eyes. “You okay?”

She dips her head and visibly relaxes. “Just reminding myself that you’re okay.”

*

Phil catches Clint’s fist in his own palm, his whole body rocks with it and it’s like a dam has broken, Clint is lashing out wildly, with more fury than finesse and Phil parries each and every blow letting nothing touch him. He’s tiring quickly though, fighting defensively is no way to win and Clint is powered by rage and terror and (please God, premature) grief. Phil is drained by them.

“Clint! Barton! Stand down!”

There’s a vague hint of awareness in stormy blue eyes, but the threat doesn’t go out of Clint’s body, he remains poised to strike, ready to avenge. “You _left_ her there.”

“She went dark, Clint,” Phil explains, patiently, for the dozenth time.

“The last I know, she’d been made. She’s either found her own way out, or she’s already…would you have had me sacrifice a whole team for her? For her body?”

Clint, Phil knows, would sacrifice ten teams for even the chance of helping Natasha, but, as Phil knew he would, he drops his eyes in the face of the question. “She has to be okay.”

It’s the prayer of a desperate child, it’s the plea of a boy demanding reassurance from his father.

Clint knows how their chosen career will almost certainly end; so does Natasha. Phil makes it personal policy never to lie or to sugar coat things for his assets. He respects them, and it does no one any good to have false hope or to believe that their handler doesn’t know the worse aspects of their lives.

“Of course she will be.”

Clint chokes out a laugh that’s a poor smokescreen for tears, though nothing actually falls. “Are you okay?”

“You didn’t touch me.”

“That’s not…Are you okay?”

“Yeah, we all are. Natasha burned herself making sure of it.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, there’s another bright flare of the anger that’s all that’s keeping Clint standing at the moment. “Don’t. Don’t give me the she died a hero bit.”

Phil isn’t oblivious to the further tightening of his shoulders, the clenching of his fists. Clint is terrified. He’s never done well with threats against Natasha, it brings out all his best instincts of protectiveness and loyalty and the indefatigable determination to face off against military powers, and cartel leaders and God himself to bring her home safely and turns them on themselves in the worst way.

“If you actually hit me, I will be obliged to report it. At best, that will lead to an investigation about whether or not she compromises you.”

“Won’t matter if she’s dead,” but it takes the overt readiness out of Clint’s frame, he sags slightly, looking more like a lost puppy than the formidable warrior Phil knows him to be.

“She’s not,” and he hopes, prays that’s true, because he will lose both of them if it is. Natasha would fight on Clint’s name, Clint will die himself, a caged bird with no one to sing for. “Just calm down.”

“ _Phil_.”

The broken wail twists Phil’s heart. “She knows how to contact us, she’s just waiting until it’s safe. I’ll keep you on base until we know.”

Natasha calls in three days later, and Phil’s almost more pleased than Clint is. It doesn’t stop him exacting vengeance in the sparring ring after hours when Natasha is ready to be an appreciative audience once more.

*

Natasha deserves everything Clint can give her, and everything he can’t. She deserves everything. It doesn’t stop something closer to terror than anger coursing through Clint when he curiously opens the box Stark left outside her suite. It’s not as though Natasha would leave him for gifts and trinkets, she’s better than that, it’s that he knows that she, for some curious reason, thinks he deserves everything too.

Clint’s deepest and most closely guarded secret – the one he’s never told anyone except Loki, and only him because there was nothing else to distract the god with; he betrayed the Helicarrier to try and protect this secret so deeply it lies at the base of his soul – is that Natasha cries sometimes. Not the single tears that squeeze out from under her lids when she’s in pain, or the silent running of the eyes that she sometimes can’t help. Natasha cries properly, shaking in his arms, and muffling her sobs as best as she can in his shoulder. She only ever does it after the missions when she hasn’t been able to get information for mere promises and has had to follow through on her deliberate seductions.

Even if he didn’t have a hundred reasons to idolise Phil, a perfectly good reason would be that he has gone toe to toe with Fury, burned whole operations and bugged out early to protect Natasha from doing just that.

When they live in Stark’s delux skyscraper, eating his food, using his stuff, Natasha might (will, he knows her, knows that she likes to pretend that she’s unfeeling and cold and made of marble but knows that she would take a bullet for Steve, what she’d do for him doesn’t even bear thinking about) feel that she needs to be responsible for _paying their rent_ , as it were. How Stark knows this he has no idea, but no one has ever accused the man of being stupid.

He goes to Steve. There’s that familiar insidious crawling at the base of his brain, the feeling that reminds him of Loki’s cold fingers, digging through his memories. Maybe he is going mad, maybe the box is full of weapons and his incredible vision is wrong. Maybe because he is a betrayer he sees it in everybody else and this is only designed to protect.

Steve’s reactions put paid to that hope. What has his life come to when insanity would be one of his better options? At least it would mean that Natasha could have a home where she was safe.

She can still have that, she can still have the safety she needs. All he must do is _remove_ the problem some other way. Like a mask settling into place, Hawkeye settles over Clint’s mind, bringing him to sniper stillness and allowing him to focus. He’ll wait for Stark, he’ll remove the problem at source.

Steve’s words barely process. All he really takes away is ‘not a kill order.’ That’s fine. Hawkeye prefers not to kill. “Alright then.” He carelessly drops the box, the dress instantly forgotten.

Stark isn’t there, but hours of waiting in uncomfortable snipers’ nests make it easy to wait for him to return. The sight of his smirking face, pleased with himself, asking if he and Steve _want_ some, as if in Natasha’s absence one of them will be required to please him is effective in banishing the cool quiet of Hawkeye’s mind and making Clint think/feel too much, all at once.

Clint lunges forwards and strikes Stark sharply across the jaw, he pulls the punch at the last moment with a deep breath and a reminder that Fury wouldn’t ask them to give Stark that, wouldn’t ask it of Steve at least, and Phil wouldn’t let them. Still, the mark will bruise, hopefully it’ll make Stark think twice every time he looks in the mirror.

He barely feels Steve pulling him back but he goes willingly. _Not a kill order._ He hadn’t intended on a second strike. This is just a warning, just a shot across Stark’s bow, but he will protect her. Them. He already failed once and the smoking ruins of the alien ravaged city mock him for it every time he glances out of a window, or heads outside.

Stark gets back to his feet, quick and wary, and at least the shit eating grin is wiped off his face now. He looks pensive. “JARVIS, deep medical scan.”

“No foreign substances in the blood, brainwave patterns are normal. There were no guests in the tower today, nor did either Captain Rogers or Agent Barton receive or make any phone calls to any previously unknown persons. Recommend non-lethal force.”

Clint bristles. He’s used to his targets fighting back, no one wants to die, even if they are a raping megalomaniac but at least they don’t usually choose to play dumb, at least they understand why someone might want to kill them.

“There’s nothing wrong with _us_ , it’s you!” Steve says, furiously.

Clint can’t even speak through the rage, can barely see through it, but that’s nothing unusual lately. It’s always bubbling, red and viscous and just under the surface, ready to boil forth and destroy everything in its wake. He’s thought more than once that this must be how Banner feels. At least Banner changes, at least his foes will look into the face of a monster while he crushes them underfoot. Clint could slide a knife between the ribs of his closest friends or his lover and have them look into his eyes trying not to choke on their blood for long enough to understand why he’d betrayed them.

And that thought loops him back to Stark and the dress and the price he might demand of Natasha for sanctuary for Clint. He must know how much he could ask for; he’s keeping Loki’s right hand under his roof.

“-you don’t want to hurt me.” Stark’s saying now. “I need you to believe me OK? I’m going to call Fury...get you two into medical for a proper examination. If you really think about it you know that. I know you don’t...don’t like me, but we fight together, you don’t want to do this.”

“You really think after what you did to Natasha we don’t want to hurt you?” Clint demands, and doesn’t think about the fact that Natasha never looks quite real in dresses like that. His Tasha wears jeans or slacks and pastel shirts, but the only other person who knows that is Loki who ripped through his mental construct of Nat, dressed to kill and ready to defend him even his own head, like she was paper.

“Natasha?” He’ll give Stark his credit, he sounds genuinely bewildered. “I haven’t even _seen_ Natasha in days. Whatever you think you remember isn’t...someone’s messing with your minds.”

They’re not. Not again. Clint checked the box, he checked with Steve. He knows what he’s seeing is real this time.

“Natasha’s fine...well...I think she’s fine. She’s on a mission, I haven’t done anything to her, I swear OK. Just talk to Fury.”

“You haven’t-” Clint steps around Steve and takes perverse pleasure in the way Stark is instantly ready to fight. He was right then, just a show of not understanding. This isn’t Stark’s legendary poor people skills at play, this is the playboy who’s never been told no trying to talk his way out of trouble.

He snarls when Steve pulls him back. He’s scented blood now, and he’s going to make Stark pay for digging into him and twisting up the thing that matters most once more.

“I should let him. If anyone deserves a beating it’s you Stark.”

Immediately the soothing tone is back. “I don’t know what-”

“Enough!” Steve is fooled enough to explain, as much as Steve can anyway. “You know what you did...soliciting Agent Romanov for...for...relations.” Clint almost smiles at the blush that crawls up Steve’s cheeks.

“What?” Stark demands, and he laughs, the sound echoing through Clint’s brain like barbed wire. “What are you talking about?”

“The dress, the _stockings_! You disgust me Stark!”

“It’s not _like that_. It’s...The dress was just...”

“We all know what the dress was _just_. She told me how you harassed her when you thought she was Natalie Rushman too!” Clint wades into the conversation, drawing himself up straight, and facing off against the dark haired man. He takes another breath, forces his legendary eyes to pick out the details of Stark’s short hair and styled goatee and not to confuse him with Loki, not to bare more of his soul than he has already. “I thought you’d have more self-preservation than to sexually harass the Black Widow. That takes balls, Stark, it really does. But then, your file says that you’re self-destructive.”

“I never _touched_ her when I thought she was Natalie. It was just a joke.”

Clint knows that. He knows that it had been in good humour, Stark flirting with her more out of habit and without any real aggression despite implied intent. He knows, because Natasha told him, that she led it, that she knew that the quickest way to Stark’s secrets was through her pretty face. But he also remembers the car he bought her and the lingere photos that won her the job. The tingling feeling of someone rummaging through his memory increases and even though he _knows_ it’s psychosomatic, knows Loki isn’t here, the urge to scream from the feeling of violation intensifies.

Stark and Steve are still arguing. “You know who thinks things like harassing a lady are jokes Stark? Bullies.”

“I’m not harassing her. And even if I was...she’s the Black Widow, surely she doesn’t need you two upstanding gentlemen to fight her battles for her.”

Clint grinds out a laugh, and reminds himself that Stark’s right. Natasha can look after herself. She’s fine. “Oh, I’m doing you a favour, Stark. I could have left you for her.”

“You should have. Natasha might at least have listened to me. Did you even follow the instruction on the box? Did you even ask JARVIS-?”

“Ask your robot where you expected her to meet you, dressed up for your pleasure Stark? I know what Natasha sometimes has to do in the line of duty but she’s not _whore to be bought_!” He’s vaguely aware of the pressure of Steve’s hand tightening, a message or warning, but right now, he doesn’t care and something inside Clint snaps.

He’s hurting and furious and at this precise moment, the man in front of him is the reason why. His teasing devil-may-care attitude a reflection of the one which ripped Clint’s world apart, his tower and his food and his computers and gifts making Clint a slave as surely as Loki’s control did, and his certainty that he’ll take what he wants, what he is owed, a danger that throbs red and bright and needs to be stopped before it hurts anyone.

 _Not a kill order_.

It’s that thought alone that holds him back at Steve’s side.

“That’s not...You know what, I don’t care. That’s what you want to think of me fine, I’m done. I don’t have to justify myself to you. I’m Tony fucking Stark. I don’t need you to like me.”

_Not a kill order._

But that doesn’t matter. Clint’s read Natasha’s report. He knows where Stark’s soft underbelly is. He can hurt him badly enough that he never comes near him and his again.

“That’s what this was? You were trying to get her to _like_ you.”

“Guess that makes you the whore Stark,” Clint sneers, lashing out with his first salvo, “when money doesn’t work, you try sex?”

He sees the uncertainty, watches Stark’s body rock into the blow before he leers, “Never had any complaints, and my little black book is full of satisfied ladies desperate for me to put a ring on their finger.”

“Is that why daddy didn’t love you? Because he didn’t want little boys?”

Tony whitens, and Clint opens his mouth, ready to go in for the jugular, to make sure Stark never comes after any of them again.

“That’s enough,” Steve snaps, hurt threading his voice as much as command. “Howard was my friend. Don’t...don’t Clint. That’s not...Just no.”

The warning gives Stark time to rally, “At least that puts him a cut above your father, Barton.”

Clint stiffens.

_He’s read our files._

_He knows that’s true._

_Even Tasha doesn’t know that, not for sure._

Most of the people who know about his father are dead. It’s just him, and Phil who compiled the folder, Fury, Clint assumes. And Loki of course, who discarded that first offering like it was trash and dug deeper, looking for the things that Clint _wouldn’t_ offer up to him.

He won’t fight anywhere near so hard for himself, but, even though they’ve never discussed it, he knows there are horrors in Natasha’s past that makes his pale in comparison. He’s sees the shadows of it sometimes when Phil looks at her. A strange feeling to know their handler knows her in ways he never will. And Phil, of course, says nothing. He won’t allow Stark to open wounds like that on her soul.

He has no choice if he is to protect them.

_Kill order._

He lunges forward and Rogers doesn’t grab him. It’s only good luck that stops Stark taking a fatal blow, but passageway is narrow and Stark is sheltered in the doorframe, and his reflexes are good for a pampered billionaire. He swings wildly at Clint, and, though none of his hits connect, he keeps him far enough back that all Clint can do is push him like a frustrated bully. Stark stumbles off balance, head cracking off the door jamb and skin splitting to run a trickle of blood down his face.

“That is quite enough. I am authorised to use a non-fatal sleeping gas to subdue you should this altercation continue.”

The blood calms Clint a little, reminds him that Stark is a civilian, the killing him is a lot more than just some paperwork and a discussion about a FUBAR mission. It physically hurts, but he pulls back, wiping blood off his knuckles and spitting out, “I guess a pretty little rich boy like you always needs someone else to fight his battles for him huh, Stark.”

“Cancel protocol, code word Omega 56Y7 JARVIS. Let’s get this finished,” Stark snarls.

“Sir...I don’t think-”

“ _Cancel_ it, JARVIS.”

“That protocol has no overrides. It is designed for me to protect the inhabitants of this tower, including myself, from you.”

Stark screams. Clint flinches. The sound an echo of his own rage. “ _Cancel. It._ That protocol is for necessities only and this is not necessary. I want this. I’m choosing this.”

“No!” Steve snaps, and the sharp command reminds Clint that they were going to talk. Even if Stark can’t be talked to, can’t be reasoned with, needs to be destroyed for all their safety. That’s why Steve is Captain America and he’s just an assassin, because Steve still wants to try.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Rogers? I thought you wanted to see what I was out of the suit.” Stark taunts, proving Clint’s point nicely.

“You can’t take Clint, and I won’t have him responsible for another needless death.”

Clint growls and blanches, turning away. He knows. He can’t. He’s already the traitor who sided with Loki, the blood of enough people is on his hands, SHIELD will not show him any mercy if he kills their consultant too. He could – should – kill him here and now, save them all the heartache, protect the people he must protect. But he mustn’t, he’s trapped. “Alright, yeah. We’re done.”

It’s surrender, and he knows Stark can see it on his face.

“Coward. Come back here if you think you could really kill me so easily.”

That almost makes him turn. He’s a lot of things (circus freak, trailer trash, traitor, whore, murderer, worthless) but he’s not a coward. At least he isn’t that. Even Loki couldn’t reduce him to that. It’s Steve who steps in, protecting Clint from himself when Clint is too far gone to do it.

“He’s not worth it,” he reassures.

Clint looks up at him and forces himself to breath. He’s not alone, Steve has his back and they won’t let Stark go after Natasha. They’ll watch out for her even though she doesn’t need them. Stark isn’t worth the loss of the little mercy he has been offered by being allowed to stay with her. “You’re right.”

 

 


End file.
